


Sehnsucht

by Radioinactivity



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Body Horror, Eye Trauma, Gen, Possession, Torture, Vergil-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 15:16:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15665835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radioinactivity/pseuds/Radioinactivity
Summary: Under watchful eyes, Vergil has everything stripped away.





	Sehnsucht

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [[Translation] Sehnsucht](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18430313) by [EverlastingFrost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverlastingFrost/pseuds/EverlastingFrost)



**Sehnsucht (German)**  
A term for the inconsolable longing in the human heart for what we know not.

\--

Warm. Sunlight and skin pressed against him in equal measure and they're both so invitingly warm that he leans toward the heat like a cat seeking a palm. He finds his face tucking into the crook of someone's throat. There's still a faint trace of perfume - jasmine and white tea, something he gave her. Another apology for ... No, best not to think about that right now. Her hands come up to rake through his hair. Over his scalp, down the back of his skull, to the nape of his neck where her nails stay to scratch lazy circles over his skin. He sighs out in contentment and it earns him a sweet laugh right by his ear. That's warm too, but in a different and better way. It soaks through him and into his bones. It feels like a physical force drawing him into her. He presses himself even closer to her more delicate figure and in return, she laces her legs through his. Together they sink deeper into the mattress to let the hours wile away.

Warm.

Soft.

When was the last time he felt this comfortable?

"When are you coming back?"

Before he can answer, the morning calm is broken by his son crying out down the hall. No. No. Not crying out. Not the usual sleepy whining to let them know he's hungry. He's screaming. Loud, ungodly loud, ragged and desperate and as terrified as a newborn can sound and it won't stop. Screaming as he tries to scramble out of bed, screaming as a pair of hands take hold of his wrist, screaming

screaming

**_S C R E A M I N G_ **

as he turns around to watch her throat split open like a grotesque flower to let blood run down the front of her bare chest.

"When are you coming back."

\--

Actually awake this time.

The same nightmare as before, whenever "before" was, because the days, months, years had blurred together into one single night that never actually ended. Regardless he's had that dream a few times and it always ends the same way. Though he wonders if it's truly a dream at all, or just his mind trying to invent comforts where there are none. He hasn't slept since he fell down here. He slips in and out of awareness, but he never sleeps. The thing piloting his body won't let him. Even now it guides him to where his captor demands with little care for Vergil's exhaustion.

What it is, he can't articulate. It's something born from Mundus. It feels like tendrils inside his body, squeezing around his muscles and knotted in his nerves. It's threaded through his spine and sometimes he swears he can feel it in his brain. Poking and prodding like curious fingertips, trying to find what makes him who he is so it can consume that spark whole. When Vergil refused to break under more conventional methods of deprivation and torture, this Thing was forced into him and every hour that ticks by, he knows it's merging with him more and more. His skin changed, turned ashen and white as his veins grew darker. It's been so long since he's seen himself in a mirror but he knows he must look like a corpse. Beneath his armor, he's gaunt, underfed, kept animate and strong by magic alone.

But he's still himself ... As much of himself as Vergil can be under the circumstances. The Thing moves his body but even its power is not absolute. Sometimes he can push back. If he wills himself, he can regain control of his body but never for long. A few minutes, half an hour at the most. Running, then, is not an option. He wouldn't make it out of Mundus' palace and without Yamato, he wouldn't be able to unseal the gates. Not that he ever truly considered fleeing in the first place. He won't leave this place without putting down the monster who did this to him. He's still a Son of Sparda. He doesn't run.

_"When are you going to come back?"_

Guilt and fear pang deep inside his chest. He tries to will her away for fear of the Thing reading his thoughts and seeing her as clearly as he does, but the dream lingers anyways. How long has he been gone? There's no concept of time down here. Just endless darkness and the throb of a dark heart pulsing under his feet. Days bled into months into years and the agony Mundus has subjected him to has vanished massive stretches of time into oblivion. How old is his son now? When he left for the last time, he was two... no, no... three weeks old. Small, so small, and hanging onto his finger with more strength than his tiny body would belie. How much has he missed? Something throbs in his skull and he presses his palms into his eyes to try and force it away. Remembering hurts. Thinking of them hurts.

But thinking of them is often Vergil's only solace. Their names are blurred whispers in the back of his brain, thrown away specifically to keep them hidden from his captors, but their faces and their impressions on him are tied into his DNA. Even just the fleeting thought of long red hair and a quiet smile, or tiny fingers tugging insistently on his clothes, or even his twin's obnoxious laugh... It hurts but he would rather it hurt than not exist at all.

  
O̳ͩ̈ͮ̊̓̄̾ṵ̺͈̝̣͌̄ͫ͛͒͆ͤr̦͚̲̟̩̭͊̈̋̿ͣ̓ ͕̩̭̺̳͕̄̐M̮̤͍̹͇̪ͣa͔͑̋̐ͧ́ͪs͇͎͇̃̔̎ͤ͛̌͗t̙͎̬̯͎ͥe͈̞ͩͫ͐r͙̲͚͕̫ͫ̾͌̏͊̿͆ͤ ̖͖͎̫͓̼͓͚̮̔̓c̆̈́̍̔a̙͓̰̞̟̟͊͛͂l̖̠̜̹͐ͤ̍̆ͭͮͅl̺̗͉̄̏̿ͩ̃̚s̬̮͉͚͍͙̺̆̈͐̄̂ ̙̜͍̹̒ͅf͇̣͗ͩ͂ͧ̈͒ͅo͉̫̬̺̘̪͖ͭ͊͑ͤ̔r͔̘̦̬̺̈́ͮ͊̏ͤ͊ ̤̲̤̪͛͒̄̈ͫṲ͔̃̈̂̆ͦ̓̀ͣs̱͔͕̹̭̤ͥ͐̅

  
"Quiet," Vergil hisses through clenched teeth. Sometimes the Thing whispers to him when he disobeys. Sometimes it speaks simply to taunt him. He tries to ignore it but when it talks, it's like a white-hot spike directly through his frontal lobe. The pain of remembering is replaced with the agony of its voice and he slides his hands back to clutch at his hair.  
  
  
D͔̤̖͈̫̟̬̒̃̽̉͆o͔̫̥̯̙͚͗̍́̎̔̐̔̅ ̙̘͉̖ͤ͋N̳͇̮̪̠̝̋̇ͮ̚o̙̥̰͍͈̭̙͖̼̓ͤ̑t͉̝̤͇̞͋̑̌̀̏ ̦̙̪̳̅̾̈́̂̋D̼͉̦̬̈ͭͬ̏ͬ̌ͤͬ̇i̤͙̥̿ͯͣs̮͇͈̱̳͎̠̬̾̑͊̉̌ŏ̻̩͍͈̖̮̂̌̄̈b̪͈̝͍ͧ̑̈ͣ́̄ͪe͍̺͍͍̙̱͕͆̈̅̾͂y̮̬̬̟͇ͬ̆ͨͫ͌̊͌

  
The Thing asserts itself once more. Its tendrils contract inside of his body and instantly he's wrenched to stand up straight. He can feel it tightening around his spine and pulsing between his muscles. When it takes control like this, it gives off such a heat that it's almost unbearable. He feels like he's being cooked from the inside. His breathing comes out heavy, labored, and the Thing spasms inside to force him to move. Now isn't the time to resist. If he goes along with it, then it doesn't hurt, it doesn't burn. The first step forward is half-stumbled but then he gives his body over to it entirely and his grace returns.  
  
  
I̘̼̣̠̗̞̮̪̖͑̐̂̏ͭẗ͍̺̝̺͚͕͑ͥ͂̇ͤ̉̾̚ ̖̯̻̝̬̙͚̳ͣ̿͒̈́I̜̗̾̿̑͑̑́̐̓s̹̳͉̅̚ ̬̦̳͍͚̯͒ͨ̊̒ͣ͑̚Ė͖̪̝̲̲̫̦͍̣ä̟̬̒̄͆͊̾̾s̺͉ͤ̍ͬ̐̏̉͆ͩ̌ͅi͙̘̲͓̠̫̟͚͑̓̂ͦͬͧė̥̰̖̠̭̃͑ͅr̙̝̘̠̞̼͊̍̑ ̩̩̦̙͑̉ͧͨ͋T̗̮̬̥͕̂͐͆ͮͯ̇͊o͇͚̳ͮ̃͊ͫͬͤ̅ ͉͒ͣͅS̳̖̼͛ͩ͊̄͊̾̐u͇̞͖͕̥̦ͭ̃̈́ͧ̎r͙͇̦̬̊̇̏ͨ̉ͯ̇r̫̖̺̮̠̯̗̎͋̅͊ͯ̋̓̏ẹ̮̣̙̭͔̙̉ͥ̓̂̌ͯͨ̎̄ṋ͍̖͖͓̼̖̑̊ͣd̯͙̬ͭ̂̾͋ẹ͈̈́̓̿̽r̼̝̙̻̠̲͑̈́̈́̿

  
"I thought... I told you shut up..." he pants out, hands falling limp at his sides as he allows himself to be guided down the endless network of pulsing pathways. This close to Mundus there are no lesser demons, nothing to see the Son of Sparda turned into a glorified puppet and snicker. There have plenty of them before, of course, and most ended up with zweihänder rammed down their throat before the Thing or Mundus could take back control. If he still had Yamato...

  
  
D̯͓͚̩̯̙̳̍̈́̌͆̄̎̇̽ő͇̟̬̫͓͓͔̜͂̊ ̲̖̤̘͈ͯͪ͛Y̗͚̩̏̈́õ̖̼̺̤͈͎̜̳͒̎͂͋u̯͖͍ͧ̎͑̅̄̋̍̽ͅ ͇͈̖̙̮̺̗͊̈́͐T̲͓̫̗̼͔͌̂h͎͕̖̪́̌̄̆̀̽ͪ̔i̫̙͉͊͊n͕͚̹ͧ̿̓͂̄̈ͭ̚k̮̩͎͍͖͎̥̗̼̓ͯ̑ ̰̱̳̘̲͔͂͐͋̌T̤̙̪̫̻̰̠̃͛̾ͪ̊h͉̭͇ͫ̈́ͪa̤̥̳͕̭͙ͨͮͭ͑̀͗̂̓t͕͚̪͇͖͈͑ͣͨ̾̌ ͔̘̝͉̒̆B̪̮̖̆̃̍̏̀͛̾͊͑r̪͕ͪͫ͒o̱̟̖̟̗͈͔̍̽͒ͪ̆̒k̥͚͈̳͉̎̈ͅͅe̠̲͉̖̩̫̯̼ͩ̓̂ͦ͋̚ṋ̖̱͚̬̠͖̤ͥ̏ͤ̿ ̠̝̠̻͛͌ͦ͑̿ͦ͑̎T̺̭̹̖̱̆̀̋ͅr̖͈̰̻̝̬̯͙̫̔̀̿i̠̮͔̟ͯ̂n̙͕̜ͤ̅̇ͨ̎̒̔k̭̹̻̭̞͎̽͊̍ͧ͋́͌̚e̹̜͇̥̱̞̩̣͊ͨ̋̋ͪ̽ͤ̾ͅt͇͇̳ͣ͐̉͐͆̂̌ͅ ̺ͩ̂C͇̼̠͕̪͈̳̙̭͌̄̆̏̌́ͧ̚a̪̪̺͚̻̘̋̇̉ͩn̤̥̈ ̹̞̈ͥ͋ͦ́ͬ͊̃S̲̭͉ͬ͆ͬ͋͗ͅͅa͇̜̠̜̱̠͖͕̍ͫ̔̈́̋͂v̻̤̬̯̬̇͑́͐ͤ̌̀̔ͣe̬ͭ̅̂ ̻̥͓̺̺̝̭ͤ͑͗͋͑̓ͤͭ́Y̘̮͔̘͔̖̙̋ọ̱̮͈͆̌ͫ̔ͨͫ̏͑ǘ̻̭̋̏͌ͤ̓̃̈́

  
  
Does it have to speak so much now? It hurts so badly. He doesn't even bother to respond. Instead he locks his jaw tightly and focuses his eyes forward. It can skim through his mind, pick up on his thoughts and feelings. It mocks his stubbornness and even moreso his loneliness. His longing for his family.

  
  
T̩̻̖͑ͪͪ̾ͫh̯͔̝̗͌̑ė̪̘̼̬̰̌ ̺̲̖̣̫̲͈͙̂͆ͣ̐ͪͧ͛F͇̹̬̯̖̂͆ͩͤ̆a̝̳̭̘̫̫̺ͭͧͥ͊m̼̫͉̜͂̅̐̋̓̈̑i̜̦̜̟̻ͥ͋ĺ̤̯͖̮̭̎̒ͯy̫̹̻̭̓̋̎̽͒ ̟̯͓̬̳ͣͣY̝̗͂̓͗ͮ͐ò͇̘̦̔̚u̩̜̠̫̯̞͇̐ͮ ̱̘̲͊̿ͤ͑̍A͈̳̘͉̗͚͚̜ͦ̒̍̇͂̆͆̚b͍͎̠͔̱̖͕̟͎͑̉̌͌̑͂̿̀a̺͇̹͇̝͊̓͛ň͕̗͎͆̌̆d͓̜̯͔͔̻̓̎̉̍̍̌o̝̼̹ͦ͐n̗̫̥̩͛̏ͦͩͦ̉̐e͇̠͔͈̺̣̰͋̔ď̺̪͖̯͔͛ͨ͆̔ͤ̃͋.͚͎ͨ̿

  
  
it burns  
it burns  
**_it burns_**

His mind is boiling and one hand reaches up to claw at the stone door in front of him for support. The gauntlets easily pierce into the grime-covered marble and he leans all of his weight against it. It burns so badly and yet the pain isn't enough to take his mind away from the truth.

He abandoned them. He did abandon them. He could have reached out, taken his twin's hand, gone back home to them. He could keep them safe. Trapped here, warped like this, what good is he to any of them? Even if he escaped, he's barely a step above a corpse. The only reason he can lift his sword at all is thanks to the magic running through his armor. He sinks his forehead against the stone and one of his eyes is burning so badly from the pain that he's sure it might burst. More of his weight presses forward and with a deep grinding sound of stone on stone, the massive door slides open.

Gore and pulsing walls give way marble columns and divine grandeur. Light pours in through arched passages so bright that it makes his own eyes ache. He's grown so used to the eternal night in every other part of the Underworld that the throne room is too bright. And the noise... His sword rattling on his back, his armor's joints meeting, his boots clattering against the floors - every sound he makes echoes in every direction. The throbbing deep in his skull only gets worse. Between the light and the sound and the everpresent exhaustion, he almost can't focus on the figure in front of him.

Mundus can take many forms - not just the triad of eyes looming above the whole of the underworld, always watching, nor the towering stone figure that can slip between this reality and the other. Sometimes, especially during his dealings with Vergil, he takes the shape of a man with long white hair and a face that looks disconcertingly like a more cruel version of his father's. His cheekbones are sharper and all three of his eyes are a harsh, burning red that seems to cut right into him. The smile that crosses his lips at the sight of his dark knight is entirely mirthless. Nothing ever warms those eyes.

"I see my influence is progressing well."

Vergil can feel the bile crawling up his throat just being near him. The same pristine face watched expressionless as lesser demons flayed the skin from his body. His voice, less the booming voice of a god and more frozen and commanding, encouraging them to keep going even after exposing muscle and bone. He didn't break. He spat in Mundus' face and earned himself more of the same agony, but he still remembers. Just hearing him speak is enough to send flashes of phantom pain throbbing up his back.

The demon king must have seen the disgust on his face because his head tilts in bemusement as he wanders closer. Vergil's fingers twitch at his sides as he barely represses the urge to reach for his blade. If Mundus notices, he doesn't say. He just brings his own face within a hair's breath of Vergil's and lets his trio of eyes flicker up and down to survey his expression.

"But not yet complete. You've held out longer than I planned." One cold hand reaches up to cup along his jaw. Whatever is in him reacts to the touch - squirming, thrashing, twisting inside his body in some vain attempt to burst free of his skin and his armor to rejoin with what it originated from. Vergil hisses through his teeth and keeps his eyes focused forward. He can't move but he won't look either. "I suppose I should have expected more out of you than your mother. You aren't made of the same fragile materials, after all."

He's tried this before. Showed him in explicit detail the way his mother died with an animate doll that looked just like her. He wasn't in the house when he was a boy, he didn't see it. He didn't know. It almost worked to hear the way they tore her apart, how she screamed for his father to help them. Over and over, he had to watch the same nightmare. He wanted to break then, to forget who he is so it wouldn't hurt so much. But then he remembered how much he hated the thing in front of him for doing to her and he held on.

"Is there something you need from me," he finally manages to choke out. His voice is as inconsistent as dirt now, a rough rasp from only speaking to the Thing using him as a host. The power behind it is gone but the impudent tone remains. Mundus' smirk falters and he takes a step back from his kingsguard.

"Not at all. Just curious to see how much more you had to go." He turns his back to Vergil and strides toward his throne with a bored hum. "It won't be long now. You may go."

The Thing inside of him pushes harder in an act of desperation to rejoin the whole. He can feel it boring holes into his muscles but those curious fingers that touch and tease over his brain retract as well. He can move his hands of his own volition without a struggle. He can think without fear of it screaming something in his mind. It's too eager to return to its Master to pay any mind to Vergil. Thus it also pays no mind to his hand wrapping around the handle of his blade. He pulls it free from where it's been secured and neither says anything nor hesitates for a moment. The window is so small, he has to act now, he has to kill this monster in this instant or he'll never leave. He'll never go back, he won't be able to go back. If he doesn't act now, he'll never see them again.

The armor keeps his emaciated body strong. It lets his feet pick up, it moves his legs and propels him forward to close the gap between him and the demon king. The armor is what allows him to lift the zweihänder over his head in a wide arc and bring it down with such force that the air glows bright red in its wake. The armor is what gives him even the faintest amount of energy, enough to summon a volley of ghostly azure swords that all come crashing down into Mundus' back in the same instance that Vergil's blade makes contact with his neck.

It isn't enough.

Something takes hold of him, something outside of his body wraps tight around one of his elbows, squeezing and squeezing until his armor starts denting inward. Frantic blue eyes look there first. The black metal is wrapped in a grotesque tendril of meat and blood extruding from Mundus' chest. There's even more of them sticking out from his shoulders, his back, his face - snaked around his blade or grasping his spectral swords until they shatter into dust. A pulse runs down the one holding onto him. The muscles spasm and wrap tighter around his arm and the armor collapses inward. It crushes down on his elbow and he can hear his own bones snap and crack under the force.

"GHK-" Starting to yell out, feeling his bones splinter out through his skin, only to be cut off as more nightmarish appendages burst out from Mundus' alabaster skin. They wrap around his neck and both of his legs, force him downward to crash into the marble floors. His sword clatters away from him, his head swims as he's pressed harder and harder into the stone. The one around his throat squeezes tight, tight, tighter until his vision starts to blur and gray at the edges. There's pressure around his other limbs as well. They're all being crushed, one at a time, so that none of the pain blurs together. He tries to open his mouth to scream again and all that he can manage is a strangled gurgle.

"I see... Who knew such a cold man could be driven by such human impulses," he murmurs with his thin lips curling into a smirk. Something digs deep into the back of Vergil's brain. "I was wondering what kept your will so strong and I see it now. A desire to see the three of them again... How noble."

The Thing spikes deep into his brain and everything goes black.

\--

In another lifetime, he took his brother's hand and they went home together. He can see it in his mind's eye as clearly as a movie.

Vergil would introduce his twin and the mother of his son and watch the pair immediately devolve into criticizing how stubborn and stupid he can be. He'd let it slide it because maybe just this once they were right. His twin would make her laugh until she cried, not from his stupid jokes but from sheer overwhelming relief, and he'd think that maybe this is how things should have always been. He'd watch his brother laugh and swoon and swear he isn't crying when she lets him hold Vergil's son. He'd let that slide too.

He'd sit outside with her on the apartment's balcony while his twin fussed over his son inside. She'd call him foolish again with her fingers laced through his. He'd chuckle to himself and agree with her. Then she'd tilt her head up to kiss his jaw and linger there until he sunk his weight against her own. They'd sit there under the night sky, comfortable and warm, and she would remind him very gently of the promise he made.

He said he would stay when he came back. Forever.

And he would turn his face to rest in her waves of red hair, close his eyes, say that he is a man of his word. She'd laugh, even sweeter this time, and hold his hand a little tighter.

But then something throbs deep inside his skull.

\--

Horror surges through him, makes him feel like he's going to be sick. The Thing inside of him is prodding further into his mind now. It saw. It saw. It saw it saw it saw. It saw his desires, his wants, his need to see what scraps of family he still had. It saw red hair and a soft smile, his son's small hands clinging to his fingers, it heard his twin's obnoxious laugh and It Understood. It realized that these were the things that kept him strong, the reason why he refused to break. Pain, scalding hot and blinding, pulses inside his head and he finally manages a ragged scream despite the noose wrapped around his throat.

  
  
I͙̪͊̀̋̈́ͮͭ́̆̂ ̣͉̮ͦS̙̟̝͙̻ͯ̇͐͒ͫȇ̜̔̉̽̅̃̓ͥe̱̙̤̲ͨ̇̎͛̎̚ ̻̙̪̐ͧͣ̚Ỵ͔̤͉͈͉̗̪̓ͥ̉o̫̘̥͂̍u͓̗͈͆͊͆ͨͤ̄r̞̙͖̲̰̖͙͙͋̋̐ͨ̎̀͊ ̱̺͈͛̈H̫̦̥̲͙̱ͨͪ̌ē̞̹͇a̞̦̳͓̩̱̓̅̄̅̓r̗͎̬̗̞ͯͬ̿̊ͥ̚ț̲̥̹̗̭̙͊̂̌

  
  
"Did you think you could keep this hidden from me forever, Vergil?" Mundus asks. His tone is cold and even despite Vergil's attempt at betrayal. Slowly he lowers himself to stoop down next to his helpless vanguard and brings his one smooth hand up to grab Vergil by the chin. Mundus pulls his head up and backward to force their eyes to meet. His perfect features are disorted now - those snaking coils of flesh stretching out from his cheeks have pulled the skin around his skull too tight. His cheekbones protude too far and Vergil can see that his mouth has so many teeth. "I see everything eventually. You should know that by now."

  
  
A̬̝͔̥ͮ͋ͮͭ̈́̓ͭn͍̹͕̹̟̘̬̑ͩͯ̚͝d̵̢͕̂ͧ͘ ̳̠̭̲̼ͫ̿ͦ̎ͨͮͤ̕͘N͂́́̉̏ͧ̔ͪ͏̹͡ͅo̷͔̣ͣ͌̊̅̋w͎̗͖̪͙̱̲̩̝ͥ͜ ̷̢͎ͣͥ̆̕Iͨͣ͗͏͏̞͇͍̻͓ ͕͎̹̣̣̣̘̠̠ͥ̂C̵͂̅͏̨͚͇̣̯͚̥ą͚̩̱̂ͮṅ̡̜̺̙̗̭͗̇ͪ ̖̹̩̪͎͓̺̃̿̾̑̌͂͒ͅCͦ̀r̗͇̮͍̯̦̝͙͖̓̀̏͜u̼̥̽̃ͯ͠š̡̨̠͓̹̝̝̼͗ͩ̂͐h̨̼̲̗̬͊̐̆͝ ̢̫̦̭̬͕͍͙͗́̑̒͜I̷͈͓ͥͪ͠ͅt̸̬͎͕͐͒͆̉̐̍͂͂̄͠

  
  
It moves. He can feel it. The Thing inside of him moves through his muscles and over his nerves, sliding along his insides, spiraling up his spine so more of it can force into his brain. Stars flash across his vision and the muscles controlling his fingers spasm involuntarily, despite his shattered bones. It's forcing itself deeper into his mind, filling in the holes with the same corruption that turned his skin ash gray and blackened his veins. Memories of his mother, his father, his brother spark and go black. It's painting over everything. Details start to fail him. The color of his father's coat, the way his mother laughed, his twin crawling into bed with him after a nightmare - it all falls into a void and vanishes into nothing. He can hear it inside his skull. Sliding into the crevices of his mind, scratching against the matter and bone like a rat building a nest. Eating away at his memories, one by one.

"No- no no no- no please-"

He's rambling now. Begging. Mundus drags his thumb over Vergil's mouth to feel the helpless pleas against his skin.

"Please please please don't- not that- not that-"

The names he wanted to keep hidden, the ones he willed into blurred whispers, slip away from him. First his father then his mother. He can see her there for just a moment, dressed in red and chiding him and his twin for fighting, and then that's gone. Moments in time falling through his fingers like sand, one after the other. He tries to wrench his jaw free and his broken limbs struggle against their bonds but neither works. The room blurs above his head and he can feel tears slipping out of the corners of his eyes, sliding back into his hairline.

"Anything but this- Master, please-"

Dante's hand is outstretched in front of him. He looks scared and desperate and Vergil should have taken it. And then something swallows it up and suddenly he can't recall why he feels sick with guilt. He screams out again, thrashes and begs and feels more and more of himself vanish. He looks up at Mundus with his eyes wild and the demon king strokes his fingers lovingly across his cheek.

"Don't- don't-" His already hoarse voice is cracking more. He can barely breathe from the mass wrapped around his throat and the panic clawing away beneath his ribcage and into his throat makes it worse. "Master, don't- don't take them- I'll do anything-"

"Yes, you will."

Something in his eye must have burst because half of his vision turns deep red. A squirming, wriggling filament of the Thing curls itself around his optic nerve and sinks into his cornea. It's moving inside him, thrashing, and his eyelid spasms uncontrollably to try and blink it away. He wrenches his gaze away from his Master.

Instead his infected eyes falls on a pair of legs standing just a few feet away from him. Slender, maybe even skinny, and swaying back and forth. He can hear quiet humming and the half-asleep coo of a baby. A woman's voice laughs and unlike every other sound in the throne room, it doesn't echo. His forces himself to look at the rest of her. Black dress, long sheets of deep red hair hanging in her face. She doesn't turn her head to look at him. Her attention remains fixed on the small, squirming bundle wrapped up in her arms.

"When are you coming back?"

He promised he would. He said he'd stay. His eyes - one the same icy blue, the other deep red and black - are both wide as he watches her stride forward. Away from him, toward the open throne room doors, walking and humming to the baby in her arms. His fingers scrape and scratch against the ground, leaving deep gouges in their wake. He wants to scream their names to make her stop but they're gone. Whatever part of his thoughts that their names were stored has been eaten. More branches spread deeper through his skull, taking root and spreading outward. The blood vessels in his other eye bursts and clouds his entire sight with blood.

"No- no no no- stop- stop- don't take them-"

A baby boy whines out. She tries to soothe him with more quiet singing but the whimpering turns into a full blown wail. Make it stop. He wants to make it stop, even if he doesn't know why. The screaming and crying feels like a knife in the gut. Like blade tearing through his side at the edge of the boundary between this world and the other-

Why did he think about that? Why would that be the first place his mind goes to?

She's still walking away. Disappearing into the shadows of the Underworld and he needs to shout her name to make her stop. But he doesn't know it and he can't recall why he wants to. Roots bury deeper into his body and the Thing with no name is clawing into his throat. Vocal chords snap under the tension so even if he knew her name, he couldn't call for her anymore.

For just a moment, he thinks of lacing his fingers through someone else's and perfume - jasmine and white tea. A comfort created by his imagination that vanishes like a half-remembered dream. He lays still beneath his Master and his Master finally reconstitutes himself to be whole and beautiful. His perfect hands slide over gray skin marred by blackened veins.

  
"G̞͛ͧ̄́ͯ͐i̻͂̎ͭv̹͙͎͚̦͛̓̓e̦̗̦͊̀͛ͤ͛ͫ͐ ̖̳̭̙̲̑M̘͇̤͈͚̫ͣ̈́̀̏e̖͈ͧ́ͯ ͖͍͇̺̖̭̓̔̂ͮ̈ă̼̺̺̙̓̔̐̃͊̓ ̰͋ͫ̀̿̍N͙̻͇̖̋ͬ͋̚a͙͛ͤ̓m̻̼̬̞̋̐ͨ̇̽ͫeͩ͑̌," rasps the Thing with a tongue that doesn't belong to it.

  
His Master smiles and his three red eyes glow bright as the sun.

"Nelo Angelo."


End file.
